Devil's Disciples MC Series- The Complete Boxed Set

by Scott Hildreth

  “It’s a good-looking weld.” I looked at Cash. “Might hold this time.”

  Sitting backward on his Harley Wide-Glide wearing a doubtful look, he glanced at the repaired fender and shook his head. “You said that the last four times you welded it. Needs a buffer between the fender mounts and the fender, if you ask me. Gonna keep breaking over and over. It’s old technology. Come on over to the twenty-first century. Bikes have shocks now.”

  I set the goggles aside. “I’ll just keep welding it back together.”

  He waved a dismissive hand toward me. “Time to get rid of that piece of shit. MC President with a shitty old bike makes you fit a stereotype. Every MC President has a dilapidated hardtail. It’s not like you to conform to society’s expectation. Get rid of the motherfucker.”

  I’d never conform to society’s expectations. The Sportster was different. It was sentimental. I looked it over. It was ugly, but I couldn’t ever see getting rid of it.

  I raked my fingertips along the worn gas tank. “I’ve had it forever.”

  “Time for a change. Fucker looks like shit. Fucker runs like shit. Fucker sounds like shit. It’s a pile of shit, Baker.” He gestured toward the dozens of motorcycles that the six of us owned collectively. “See anything else that resembles that junkety fucker?”

  I didn’t need to look. My Sportster hardtail was one of a kind in all respects, including ugliness. It was the first Harley I’d ever purchased, and the one that ignited my love of riding. I grinned. “Nope.”

  “Maybe it’s what’s giving you the headaches. Probably got your spinal cord pinched between a couple of slipped disks. I’m tellin’ ya, get a Dyna or a bagger.” He snapped his fingers. “Headaches will disappear just like that.”

  I hadn’t had a headache since I started fucking Andy. I didn’t want to admit it, but it appeared Cash’s belief in whacking off was spot-on. I lifted my leg over my seat and sat down on the vintage bike. “Have you ever fucked a chick that had a pussy that drove you mad?”

  “All pussy drives me crazy. What do you mean?”

  “Pussy that’s just, I don’t know, better.”

  He leaned against his handlebars and swept his hair out of his face. “Thought we were talking about you gettin’ a new bike. What, now we’re on to twat talk?”

  “Just asking a question.”

  He rubbed his jaw and gave me a serious look. “You know what they say about pussy, don’t you?”

  “What’s that?”

  “All puss is good puss, some’s just better than others.”

  “I was trying to ask you a serious question. Never mind.”

  A confused look washed over him. “What was the question?”

  Cash was an integral part of the club, and my best friend. On the job, he was all business. A true professional. During the day-to-day course of living life, however, he had the attention span of a gnat.

  “Focus, Cash.” I snapped my fingers twice in hope of gathering his attention. “Have you ever fucked a chick that had voodoo pussy?”

  His eyes narrowed. “Voodoo pussy?”

  “It’s the only way I know how to describe it. Little bitch has got the tightest little puss I’ve ever fucked. And, it’s not just tight, it’s…I don’t know. It’s like it casts a spell on my cock. I stay hard forever when I’m fucking her, and when I come it feels like I’m losing my fucking mind.”

  “She got a narrow little waist and wide hips?”

  Andy had a small waist and very wide hips. So far, he was batting a thousand. “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Got an ass like an apple?”

  “Like an apple?”

  He formed his hand into the shape of a ‘C’. “Is it shaped like this if you look at it from the side?”

  “It is.”

  “Short?”

  I squinted. “Her ass?”

  “No, motherfucker. The chick with the magic twat. Is she short?”

  “I don’t know. Kind of. Maybe five foot three or something.”

  He sat up straight and widened his eyes. “Twat the size of a dime, and deeper’n fuck? Clenches your cock no matter how hard you pound or how long you hit it?”

  So far, he’d described Andy. I nodded, eager to hear what else he had to say. “Sounds like her, yeah.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Got golden-colored eyes?”

  My heart stuttered. The taste of bile tickled the back of my tongue. I hopped off my bike and crossed my arms. “What the fuck, Cash.” I looked him up and down. “You been following me?”

  He glared. “You skittish prick. What are you talking about? Why the fuck would I want to follow your dumb ass?”

  “If you haven’t been following me, how the fuck do you know so much about her?”

  Mimicking me, he got off his bike, puffed his chest, and crossed his arms. “Who’s her?”

  “The girl with the voodoo pussy.”

  “It ain’t voodoo pussy, dip shit. She’s Brazilian.”

  I looked at him as if he were crazy. “What?”

  “Brazilian. You know, from Brazil. They’ve all got wolf eyes, small waists, big asses, curly brown hair, tiny pussies, and big tempers. Best sex on the planet is a Brazilian bitch. Looks like you ran into one. What’s her name?”

  I was relieved that he had no idea who she was, but I wasn’t about to tell him her name. “Fuck I don’t know,” I snapped back. “I fucked her a few times. That’s it.”

  “I fucked a Brazilian bitch once. She lived next door to One-eyed Pete. Stayed with her cousin for the summer in that little white house. Year before last.” He exhaled heavily. “Name was Natalia Silva.”

  I remembered her. Other than having a fantastic ass, she looked nothing like Andy. I rolled my eyes. “I remember her. Dark skin. Curly brown hair. Big ass.”

  His mouth slowly twisted into a smile as memories of her came to mind. In a moment, his eyes widened as if telling the tale of a battle he’d fought in and narrowly escaped death. “Bitch had a twat so tight it felt like I was trying to butt fuck a bird when I screwed her. When I came, it was like a fuckin’ geyser. Made me dizzy for about ten minutes after, too.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder why Cash stopped fucking her if her pussy even came close to resembling Andy’s. “Why’d you quit fucking her?”

  “Didn’t want to. She found out I was fucking that stripper, and she clocked me in the head with a skillet while I was sleeping.” He chuckled as he touched a z-shaped scar on the side of his forehead. “Then, the crazy motherfucker pulled out a knife and tried to cut me. Left my best pair of jeans and my favorite boots on the floor at the foot of her bed. Ended up leaving in my wife beater and boxers. Rode the ‘Glide home half naked. Brazilian bitches are good pussy, but they’re crazy.”

  “I thought you got that scar in a fight?”

  “I did,” he said. “A fight with Natalia about that stripper.”

  I laughed. “Getting the truth out of you is damned near impossible.”

  “You want the truth? All you gotta do is ask.”

  Having a woman in my life would put the club at risk. It was my duty to protect the men, not put them in harm’s way. Therefore, I didn’t do relationships. I never had, and I never would. Not having Andy’s pussy to fuck wasn’t something I wanted to think about, though. Nevertheless, ridding myself of her was a requirement, not a recommendation.

  “Ever miss fucking her?” I asked. “Now that she’s gone?”

  “All the time. Fucking her was like riding one of those Panigales.” He sat down on his motorcycle and gazed blankly at the sea of motorcycles parked beside us. “If I took yours and sold it, do you think you’d ever find another bike that’d perform like it?”

  I didn’t even have to think about it. There was nothing on earth that could perform like the Panigale. “Nope.”

  “Panigale pussy. That’s what you ought to call it.” He gestured toward the six Italian race bikes. “Nothing compares.”

  If he was right, and I feared
he was, severing my ties with Andy was something I needed to do immediately.

  I hoped hitting me in the head with a skillet wasn’t her reaction.

  14

  Andy

  In celebration of my impending move, Holly and I sat at the kitchen table sharing our second bottle of wine while the twins slept. I’d slipped into a pair of my favorite sweats and a loose-fitting tee shirt for the event, and she wore pink plaid pajamas, which wasn’t surprising.

  It seemed she always wore plaid. In my opinion, it was at least part of the reason why Hank left her. Plaid looked good on no one, regardless of how big their boobs were.

  “How big was Hank’s Hankster?” I asked.

  She choked on her wine. After wiping her mouth on the back of her hand, she gave me a puzzled look. “What?”

  “His schlong. His dick. Cock. Meat stick. Whatever you want to call it.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah.” I sipped my wine. “How big was it.”

  “Normal sized, I guess.”

  I scrunched my nose. “What’s normal sized?”

  She took a drink of wine and then looked in the glass. “I don’t know. Like the size of a hot dog.”

  “A hot dog?” I laughed out loud. “Like a normal hot dog? A Ball Park, or whatever?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “A hot dog. Why?”

  I held my laugh and gave her a serious look. “I don’t know how much experience you’ve got, but a hot dog dick isn’t normal.”

  “It’s not?”

  I cleared my throat. “Normal means standard or ordinary. Hot dog dicks are supposed to be between the legs of twelve-year-old boys, not men.”

  “What’s normal, then?”

  “How many guys have you had sex with?”

  Her gaze dropped to the floor.

  I rapped my knuckles against the top of the table. “Roughly. I don’t need an exact number.”

  She continued to stare at the floor. After an awkward moment of waiting, I leaned onto the edge of the table. “Don’t tell me Hank’s it.”

  She looked up. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah? As in, yeah, Hank’s it?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Holy crap,” I gasped.

  “What?”

  “You two started boning in high school.” I looked at her with eyes of disbelief. “He was your first, wasn’t he?”

  She wiped what may have been a tear. “First and last.”

  “Dear God, girl. You need to get some dick. Not a wiener, either.”

  “I do. It’s not that easy, though.” She stared blankly at the rim of her glass for a moment and then looked up. “That guy that comes to your work. With the tattoos. His is bigger than a hot dog?”

  I lifted my arm and looked at my wrist. After twisting it back and forth a few times, I slapped my forearm against the table. It hit the wooden surface with a thud! “It’s about the size of my wrist.”

  She looked at my arm and then at me. Her eyes opened wide. “How does that work?”

  I grinned. “Very well, actually.”

  She tilted her head toward my arm. “It’s seriously that big?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Slowly, her eyes widened. “He really fits something that big in you?”

  “Every inch of it.” I closed my eyes. “Until his balls are against my butt crack.” I opened them. “It makes me come so hard my ears ring.”

  She let out a heavy sigh. “God. What I wouldn’t give to have an orgasm like that.”

  I looked away and shook my head.

  “What?”

  “You’re pretty and you’ve got huge boobs. If you quit wearing plaid every day, you could get almost anyone to fuck you. Get someone to watch the demons and go out for a night. Dress inappropriately, put on some makeup and do your hair, and I guarantee you someone would hit on you.”

  “They’re not demons, they’re my babies.”

  “They’re evil spirits hidden inside children’s bodies. Did you see that movie? The one with that little girl that gets sucked into the TV?”

  “They love you, Andy. I can’t believe you’d--”

  “If they love me, why don’t they act like it? Last night, Helen was running around the house saying, Andy, Andy, your hair’s like cotton candy.”

  “What do you expect?”

  “I expect to be left alone. I was watching a movie.”

  “You died it pink.” Her eyebrows raised. “Kids are perceptive.”

  “It’s strawberry blonde. Maybe she’s colorblind.”

  “She’s not colorblind. It’s kind of pink. She’s gifted, by the way.”

  I coughed out a laugh. She was gifted in the art of being annoying.

  “What?” She gave me a look. “She is.”

  “The other one was out on the porch with a can of hairspray and that spark thingy for the barbeque grill. He was using them as a flamethrower to kill bugs.”

  “That doesn’t make him evil.”

  “Where does an eight-year-old even learn such shit?”

  “His dad used to do it all the time.”

  “The same guy that had a hot dog dick.” I chuckled. “Explains a lot.”

  She took a drink of wine and then finished what was in her glass. As she poured another, she looked at me over the top of the bottle. “How many guys have you had sex with?”

  It was a question I hated being asked. I’d gone through phases in my life, most of which included using sex as a means of lifting my self-esteem high enough that I felt worthy of taking up space on earth.

  My lack of trust in men made sure that I rarely fucked any one man long enough to develop feelings. For someone who enjoyed sex as much as I did, not committing to men had its pitfalls. I’d had sex with more men than I cared to count.

  “Quite a few,” I said sheepishly.

  “How many is that?”

  “I don’t know. Quite a few.”

  “Like, six?”

  I almost choked to death laughing. I’d screwed six different men before I fell in love. “No. More than that. What’s it matter?”

  “I guess it doesn’t.” She took a sip of wine and then nodded toward my hand. “They didn’t all have dicks that big, did they?”

  I shook my head. “No. Baker’s dick is special.”

  “Special in size? Or something else?”

  I wasn’t sure how to respond. It could have been the size alone that satisfied me so much. Or, how he used it. I wondered if who it was attached to had anything to do with it.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “I’ll try and figure it out the next time we go at it.”

  “There’s going to be a next time?”

  “I hope so.”

  “So, you like him?”

  It was the most ridiculous thing she’d said all night. “I like his dick. That’s it.”

  She seemed confused. “I thought you said he was hot.”

  “He is. But he’s a man. Eventually men do what men do. As long as he stops in and fucks me from time to time, I’m getting all I need.”

  “It’s nice to have a man to come home to,” she said. “Not all men are like Jacob.”

  Hearing his name made me cringe. I arched an argumentative eyebrow. “Says the woman whose husband ran off with the big-tittied chicken wing waitress.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Point taken.”

  I reached for the bottle of wine. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t bring up his name again.”

  “He lives three thousand miles from here, and you guys have been split up for, what, five years? It’s not like you have anything to worry about. Not anymore.”

  She was wrong. Thoughts of what he’d done lingered in my mind every hour of every day. The only way of making certain I never had to relive the experience was to never get attached to another man.

  And that was what I planned to do.

  15

  Baker

  Good pussy had the ability to change a man completely. History had proven
that it caused men to go bankrupt, cheat on their wives, commit murder, and even declare war. Denying the effect a tight pussy had on a man’s ability to retain his wits would be foolish.

  I wasn’t a foolish man.

  I pushed the door to Andy’s office open. Sitting sat her desk with a stack of paperwork in front of her, she was wearing a form-fitting gray blouse that accentuated her every curve. Her blond hair was down and had a slight wave.

  As my cock began to rise against my jeans, she looked up and smiled.

  I tore my eyes away from her tits and looked her in the face. “Do you make your hair like that, or is it natural?”

  She reached for her hair. “Like what?”

  “Curly. Like it is now.”

  She lifted a few strands of hair off her shoulder with her index finger. “This isn’t curly. This is what it looks like if I straighten it and then curl it a little. If I leave it alone, it’s a disaster.”

  “Disaster in what sense?”

  She raised both eyebrows. “It’s a curly mess.”

  My throat tightened. I swallowed heavily and then raised my index finger. “Is that the natural color?”

  “This?” She shook her head lightly, sending her hair into slow-motioned orbit. “No. It’s naturally brown. Brown and curly.”

  A person’s nationality made no difference to me. I truly believed we were equal in the eyes of our maker, and, therefore, should be in mine. I ranked people based on idiocy, and quickly cast the idiots from my life. Sensible people were kept as associates and companions. Color, religion or nationality never came into play.

  I did wonder about Andy having the Brazilian temper, and how it might come into play when I broke off our sexual relationship. The odds of Cash being right about her nationality were a million to one. Her pale skin tone told a story that her hair and eyes couldn’t deny.

  I sat down. “Kinky and brown? Is that a genetic thing?”

  “I suppose. My mother’s Brazilian. I’ve got her hair.” She blinked a few times. “And her eyes. Sucks that blue eyes are recessive. I wish I had them, instead.”